Chapter 7 Nadya #2
His attention is locked on me, his eyes hard, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack.
Whatever fragile bubble Alexei created pops instantly.
Before anything else can be said, another ripple sweeps through the rooftop. I follow the turn of heads, and then I see him.
I don’t recognize him immediately, but the way the air shifts around him, the way the conversations falter into hushed murmurs, makes it clear that whoever he is—he matters.
I glance at Alexei, searching for some kind of clue, and sure enough, he straightens just slightly and inclines his head politely.
“Father,” Alexei says smoothly, his voice respectful but edged with something I can’t quite name.
Father?
I turn back to the other man. Older. Taller. The same ruthless cut of Konstantin’s features, but colder. Like someone took whatever was human inside him and sanded it down until nothing but bone remained.
Shit.
This is Dmitry Buryakov?
Konstantin’s father?
The realization crashes through me as the pieces snap into place—the way the crowd shifts, the way Konstantin has closed down, his body coiled so tightly it looks like it might shatter if anyone touches him.
I glance up at Konstantin again. His face is locked down, unreadable, but I can feel the anger simmering just under the surface.
He lifts his chin slightly, addressing Dmitry with a formality so tight it feels like it might snap. “Father,” he says, his voice even but stripped of anything warm. “I didn’t expect you here tonight.”
Dmitry’s mouth curves into a small, mocking smile.
“Nonsense,” he says lightly, the faintest edge of amusement cutting through his voice.
“What father wouldn’t attend his son’s wedding?
” He steps a little closer, adjusting the cuff of his jacket with deliberate casualness. “You did invite me, after all.”
The way he says it—smooth, like a blade sliding between ribs—makes my skin crawl.
I glance at Konstantin again. I see it then—the flicker across his face.
Surprise.
He didn’t expect his father to actually come.
He probably sent an invitation out of obligation, out of some political necessity—never believing for a second that Dmitry Buryakov would bother gracing him with his presence.
And yet here he is.
Not to bless the marriage. Not to offer support. But to remind everyone here exactly who holds the real power.
Dmitry’s gaze flicks to me again, lingering in that way that makes my skin crawl. “And you,” he says smoothly, “must be the miracle worker. Taming a Buryakov. Imagine that.”
Buryakov.
He says Konstantin’s last name the way you’d use a slur.
As if he doesn’t deserve to wear the name.
As if he should be separated from the “real” Buryakovs standing around us.
I feel Konstantin tense beside me again, but he still doesn’t rise to it, letting his father’s words wash over him without a flinch.
And somehow, it guts me more than if he had fought back.
Because this—this cold humiliation—he’s used to it.
The conversation drags painfully on. Dmitry stays just long enough to twist the knife a little deeper, all under the guise of polite, paternal interest.
“You’ve landed well, Konstantin,” Dmitry says, his voice easy, pleasant even. “A wife. A household to manage. Stability.” He smiles faintly, a predator baring teeth. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
I glance at Konstantin, expecting him to react. To bristle. To do something.
But he doesn’t. He stands there, silent, unmoving, his face carved into a mask of stone.
Only I’m close enough to see the small tells. The way his jaw clenches tight enough to strain the muscles in his neck. The way his fists curl and uncurl at his sides. The way he keeps his breathing slow and measured, as if controlling it is the only thing holding him upright.
And despite everything—despite the fact that I don’t owe him kindness, that he bought me like property—I feel a sharp, uninvited stab of pity for him.
Because no one deserves this.
Not even him.
Not to be ripped apart so publicly by the man who should’ve been proud of him.
Beside me, Alexei shifts slightly, sensing the tension too.
There’s something almost protective in the way he angles his body, subtly stepping half a pace in front of me, like he’s bracing to cut off whatever further humiliation Dmitry might throw.
Dmitry finally glances away, scanning the rooftop, clearly growing bored now that he’s made his point. “I should greet my wife,” he says idly. “And Roman—wherever he’s managed to pass out.” He claps Alexei lightly on the shoulder. “Come, boy.”
Alexei hesitates for a half second. Just long enough for me to catch it. Then he gives a slight bow to me, a spark of real sympathy flashing in his gray eyes. “Congratulations again,” he says quietly.
I nod, my throat too tight to answer.
As they move away, Alexei glances back once, offering me a quick, almost apologetic smile before disappearing into the crowd after his father.
The second they’re gone, the tightness around us snaps. Like a stretched wire finally breaking. I feel it before I even look at him. Konstantin, standing beside me, shoulders rigid, fists jammed so tightly at his sides that his knuckles turn white.
I turn away from him, needing a breath, needing to put space between me and the tightly coiled rage vibrating off his body.
The bartender behind the small rooftop bar is setting up another round of drinks, moving with quick, practiced efficiency. I watch him for a moment, focusing on the clink of glass, the smooth pour of amber liquid, anything to quiet the rush of emotions clawing at my chest.
That’s when it happens.
A prickle. A strange, cold shiver at the back of my neck.
My spine stiffens instinctively, the way it used to when I walked home alone at night with too many footsteps behind me. A sensation I’ve learned never to ignore.
I glance toward the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the edge of the rooftop.
Something moves.
Fast.
Too fast to be a reflection.
Too fast to be a trick of the light.
My breath catches in my throat, and every muscle in my body tightens at once. The hair on my arms rises, and I straighten slowly, my pulse hammering hard against my ribs. I scan the reflection in the window again, heart racing, every muscle locked tight.
Nothing.
Just the city lights glittering far below, the slick blackness of the glass, and the soft murmur of oblivious conversation behind me.
But I know what I saw.
Or maybe it’s not what I saw. Maybe it’s what I felt.
That icy prickle at the base of my skull, the way my body tensed without permission, the way my gut twisted in warning.
I force a slow breath in through my nose.
I don’t think. I move.
I drop the clutch in my hand and grab a fistful of Konstantin’s jacket, yanking him backward with every ounce of strength I have.
“What the hell—” he starts, but he doesn’t finish.
Because that’s when the first shot splits the night.
A crack like the sky tearing open.
Glass shatters behind us—a violent explosion of noise—and people start screaming, ducking instinctively, some diving to the ground, others frozen in place with shock.
Another shot. Closer.
I shove Konstantin again, hard this time, forcing him to move, my body acting faster than my mind can keep up.
He snaps out of it instantly, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me low behind one of the heavy marble columns near the bar.
Another bullet whizzes past, splintering the edge of a chair we just vacated. Shards of wood spray the air. I hit the ground hard, my palms scraping against the cold marble floor, but I barely register it. My heart is pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.
People are screaming now, running toward the elevators, toward the stairwells, knocking over tables, drinks spilling like blood across the stone tiles.
Konstantin covers me with his body instinctively, his hand pressed against the back of my head to keep me low. His other hand is already at his waistband, drawing a gun from a holster I hadn’t even noticed under his jacket.
The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder and fear.
“Stay down,” he growls, his voice rough and close to my ear.
I nod, my muscles trembling, adrenaline surging through me so fast it makes my vision pulse at the edges.
He lifts his head just enough to scan the rooftop, and I see the absolute calm that settles over him. Like this chaos, violence is where he was born.
Another shot rings out, and I flinch, instinct overriding everything else.
Konstantin pulls me tighter against him, shielding me with his body without hesitation.
And in that terrifying, broken moment, curled against him while the world crumbles around us, one thing crystallizes in my mind:
Whoever came here tonight didn’t come to send a message.
They came to kill.